


Real Nightmares Begin When You Wake Up

by Winga



Series: Nightmares [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angsty too, Dark, I totally think this could be true!, Other, Really completely and totally
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-07
Updated: 2011-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-27 01:16:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winga/pseuds/Winga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't as if he could just leave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Real Nightmares Begin When You Wake Up

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually the very first Sherlock fic I finished. And I have a great love for this and the other pieces (even the ones that are not yet written completely).

# Real Nightmares Begin When You Wake Up

It’s not about what he wants. It never is. And he doesn’t care. Not really. Not when he can’t seem to care about himself enough when he only wants what’s best for Sherlock.

He doesn’t even remember when this all began. Or if it can ever end.

(It can’t, Mycroft made sure of it when he tried. The only time and the cane was back for a week.)

He sighs. It’s not about him. It never is.

**

“John,” Sherlock says and John gives him an evidence bag. He gets a nod as a response and with that Sherlock disappears. John smiles briefly, a smile that isn’t quite happy but more like something forced. And it’s been that way too long.

Sometimes Lestrade asks him something, waiting for an answer but he never gives any. And he knows that Lestrade sees something’s off but he keeps on going as he always does. And when Sherlock asks him to look at the body, he does. He gives his opinion (wrong, as always) and marvels at Sherlock’s intelligence. It _is_ still bloody brilliant, he’ll admit that, but…

He never goes there anymore.

“Come on,” Sherlock’s voice breaks his thoughts and he follows, they take a cab back to 221b Baker Street because of course Sherlock has already been able to tell the police who the murderer is and why and where to find him (somewhere inside his brain a voice says _her_ and he wonders if it changes anything).

And they’re back and he smiles and opens the door and he somehow senses Mycroft is there. And he is.

“Milk?”

Sherlock swears beneath his breath but stops John from turning away. “No. Please stay, I have some unfinished business with him.”

“I’m almost certain he doesn’t want me here,” John insists but he knows he’ll follow Sherlock anyway because wasn’t that what Mycroft wanted? Sherlock looks at him and smiles at him and for a moment he remembers why he enjoys this life.

“Ah, Sherlock, Mr. Watson,” Mycroft says in a way of a greeting, as if it was his house. John answers in the same tone, Sherlock storms into his chair and grabs at his violin.

“Tea?” John asks just to get to another room at least.

It’s obvious, he thinks, that Mycroft knows he’s there because Sherlock insisted, and that Mycroft will say yes and Sherlock will say no in that voice, that demanding voice, but he will resist and leave the room anyway. So he doesn’t really wait for answers but rather goes make the tea. He hears Sherlock saying yes and is momentarily surprised but lets it pass.

**

He sometimes stays up late wondering what his life would be if he hadn’t met Mike that day. How it would all have turned out, if he would’ve stayed with Harry for a while, if he would’ve kept the place he had. If he had found a steady relationship.

What if he hadn’t been shot?

But these are just what ifs and he can never have them. Decisions have all been made for him and he can’t go back. At least not in one piece and he doesn’t want to have his family grieving. Not anymore.

**

He takes the tea to the two brothers. He has no idea how Mycroft takes his tea and he doesn’t care.

“Why?” Sherlock is asking and John wonders if it’s the first thing they’ve said because he didn’t hear anything else. He fears the conversation and wonders idly if he could just go to his room. He doesn’t, instead he sits down on the sofa.

Mycroft’s answer’s cryptic but then again, everything about the man is cryptic. “Because otherwise it will break someone and we need them.”

John wonders, briefly, what and who they are discussing before turning his attention to the street, the noises, his own thoughts. It’s not until his name is mentioned that he gets back. Sherlock’s asked something but not from him and obviously they are both oblivious that the mention of his name might bring him back.

“It’s important. You know it. I can’t let it happen again, you see. Never again,” Mycroft says. He shakes his head. “No, Sherlock.” He looks at the time and for some reason John’s certain he hasn’t even touched his tea. “I must be off. Mummy wishes you’d come on Sunday.” And there’s something there, something John doesn’t catch.

Sherlock does and shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Very well. We’ll see later,” Mycroft says and leaves.

Sherlock seems distracted and John doesn’t really care. He’s forgotten reasons to really feel when he became only a piece in this game. But he has to play his part well so he asks: “Want to talk about it?”

As suspected, Sherlock waves it off. “He’ll come to his senses soon enough.”

John nods though he doesn’t believe. He doesn’t believe one can connect a Holmes and sanity. He wonders if Sherlock can see his thoughts.

**

He crawls around in his thoughts and he wonders when he became what he is now. He crawls around in life but no one notices. He works normal hours, he does everything he’s done before.

He wants to know if Sherlock is behind it, if he knows and chooses to ignore it all because he wants to keep a pet. And Mycroft’s willing to help. Because Sherlock can’t have not noticed the changes in him. He’s too obvious.

He’s never been that good of an actor.

**

Some time later John’s better at acting. He starts to believe in the lies he lives. Starts to believe it’s all as it was in the beginning and he sees, notices Sherlock relaxing. He’s still not sure if he’s known all the time or if he’s just been worried. (Though Sherlock, worried about him? Why?)

Lestrade sees his smiles and wonders, briefly, what it all was, John knows this. Lestrade sees more than Sherlock gives him credit for but John lets it be, it may some day be important but not now.

Sarah asks him out but it’s not a date anymore, they’re better off friends and so they eat out together, have movie nights, stuff friends do. John wonders if it’ll continue even after Sarah finds someone to date but he doesn’t dare to ask. Sarah doesn’t say it but he knows she thinks he and Sherlock are together. And he thinks it’s for the best because.

If he’s serious, how could he ever have a relationship?

He doesn’t want to think about it but he does, constantly, even now that he’s in a Chinese restaurant, talking to Sarah about a boy and a story they’d heard. A story, it’s nothing more, John knows and so does Sarah. They will contact someone the next day and tell them to go look at the kid’s house.

They move onto lighter areas until Sarah breaks it. She doesn’t mean to and she doesn’t realise until John has been quiet for a while. “What is it?” she asks in the same way she’d just asked if Sherlock would like to join them some time.

John forces a smile. “I want out of it all,” he says and stands up. “I need to go.” He puts his share on the table and kisses Sarah on the cheek. “I’m sorry. It’s… I’m sorry.”

She stares at his retreating back and wonders. But she shakes the feeling of unease away, thinks it’s probably stress. Or maybe there’s been a row. She lets it pass but John won’t. John forgets everything he’s remembered as truths and knows they’re lies.

And he needs to talk to Sherlock.

**

It’s not like he can’t have some social life. But he knows he’s being watched all the time. He never knows what these people make of him, his words, what Mycroft makes of it all. He just knows they are there always.

He hates it. He hates how he can’t shop without being under a hawk’s eye. He hates.

It was better when he didn’t know it. He’s pretty sure they’ve been shadowing him since he met Sherlock and in the beginning he didn’t know.

He hates how he doesn’t know what Sherlock thinks of all this.

Hates how he needs approval even when all he wants is to get out of the cycle. How he clings to things that he now deems normal. How Sherlock is a part of that.

**

“I was wondering,” Sherlock says to the apparently empty room and John knows he’s talking with the skull. He briefly considers turning back but he can’t.

“Sherlock.”

It’s the brief surprise on Sherlock’s face that makes him wonder what the other was wondering. “Weren’t you out with Sarah?”

John shrugs. “I was. But. I needed to talk to you.”

“Did you?” Sherlock asks, feigning boredom but really, he should know John can read how interested he is. How surprised.

He takes a deep breath. “A pet. Why?”

Sherlock doesn’t seem to understand.

“Your brother has me shadowed so whenever I might decide to leave, I would be beaten to death. I hate it. Hate the knowledge. Hate how I can’t have anything normal anymore,” John says. He’s standing and staring at the man across the room.

Sherlock drops his hands to his sides. He walks to his chair and sits down on it. “I didn’t think he knew.”

John stares at the defeated-looking man.

“John. I’m. I’m sorry. I will arrange for everything, I’ll tell Mycroft to back up and that – that you are free to leave me. Any time you want to.” Sherlock looks up at John. “You should have told me. Earlier, I mean. I was wondering if he knew but I didn’t think he’d go back to this.”

It takes John a moment to realise just what Sherlock’s saying. And when he does, all he can do is stare. For a moment it’s all frozen in place.

“But…” he says and then stops. He thinks and decides he needs tea. Sherlock needs time, he needs time, to process it all, to see beneath the layers.

**

He’s not unbreakable. Mycroft knows that. Sherlock knows that.

He thinks they’re the only ones to know exactly what it takes to break him. That is why he didn’t know if Sherlock knew.

He wonders.

Everything is suddenly so hard. He wants to ask how and why and when from himself and he wonders about Mycroft.

And he wonders about himself.

**

John returns with two teacups and Sherlock takes the other with a murmured thanks. The first thing to make John uneasy. He sits down on the chair across from Sherlock’s.

They are both breathing loud and the air is thick with questions.

“It just happened,” Sherlock says and sips his tea. Suddenly he’s staring right into John’s eyes. “I never – I didn’t think it could happen again. Ever. And then you – you were too much. It wasn’t anything like at first sight, it just – I gradually grew fonder of you.”

It’s weird, John thinks, to hear Sherlock trying to speak his feelings. It’s nothing like in the crime scenes where all the thoughts just come out together and make sense, it’s harder, it’s like Sherlock’s trying to spit everything out but the words wish to stay inside him.

“Anyway, what does it _matter_? You want to leave. I will arrange for that. Just. I’d like to know why.”

“There was panic, there were floods. In my mind. I wanted it all and I loved it all but something changed, you were looking _for_ danger. All the time and it was like you wanted us both dead. And one day I packed my belongings, I was leaving. I should’ve remembered your brother has this place bugged. Someone had me sooner than enough and we went to some place. Remember the limp? It was his fault.”

John sees how Sherlock’s mind works, how he remembers, how he sees it all now. And then he laughs. It’s so hollow and so dark that John can’t but wonder who this man really is. He certainly is not a sociopath, there’s more to him.

Suddenly he’s standing in front of John. “I tried to, you know. Die. Not have you die with me, you don’t even know how many times I went alone.”

John shivers as the words touch him. “Why?”

It’s the smile that makes him want to be able to back in time and stop himself asking about pets and Mycroft. “Because I had a reason to believe it would take you off my mind. I didn’t actively seek death. Rather the closeness. The high of it. To forget what I wanted and to get something else in my mind. Because having an obsession – oh. That’s horrible. Horrible for me and, if what I’m obsessing over happens to be a person, horrible to them.”

Suddenly losing limbs sounds good. Dying even. Because John’s certain he doesn’t want to know why it’s horrible.

Was he only playing defeated?

“Who are you?” John manages to ask.

It’s impressive how Sherlock can change back to his normal self and still stand there, looking just like he did a moment ago. “Oh you know who I am. An obsessive person. A _very_ jealous person. Of course I knew Mycroft had you shadowed, and no, there are no bugs at the moment. He can’t hear or see us. And you should know that I’m quite capable of acting Mycroft when needed.”

And suddenly it’s all crystal clear. The fear is real. The fear is a must. There is nothing else. The recognition.

“He might think I’m in love with you, just like everyone else assumes. You are mine. Have you not realised this earlier?” Sherlock asks and suddenly he’s kneeling in front of John. “You are so easy,” he says and brushes John’s cheek. “You won’t leave.” It’s not a command, it’s a statement.

John won’t.

**

Late at night, when he’s trying to sleep, he wonders about normality. Sherlock’s quiet, steady breaths come from his right and he wonders if the other man sleeps.

He wonders how much broken knuckles would hurt. How much it would hurt if he fell from a high building, would he feel it before he died.

He knows that he couldn’t do it. Sherlock’s made sure of it. And he can’t leave. He’ll just be returned, a bit roughened up perhaps, and then Sherlock will just keep him.

He wonders if Lestrade can see it. If Mycroft knows.

If everyone’s in on it.


End file.
